


scavenger hunt

by xXstaystillXx



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Basement Era, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sibling Incest, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24819559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXstaystillXx/pseuds/xXstaystillXx
Summary: And isn’t it kind of fucked up to try and keep him asleep? Yeah? Isn't that the cherry on top the heap of fucked-up Gerard lives under?
Relationships: Gerard Way/Mikey Way
Comments: 2
Kudos: 62





	scavenger hunt

**Author's Note:**

> fully serious when i say i originally wrote this in minecraft (long story). as usual set in 1990something

There’s these pictures Gerard's mom keeps framed on the mantelpiece. Used to it was hanging on the bathroom wall, and he had to stare at them every time he went to take a piss; now it’s on the mantelpiece, staring at him whenever he walks past the living room. He doesn't like that much better.

Red-brown frame, two pictures taken seconds apart, happening one after another in little wooden compartments like comic panels. In them, Gerard has to be eight or nine, which puts Mikey at around five— his hair hadn't darkened up all the way back then and the first panel is him, towheaded, smiley and half buried in a drift of leaves at the base of a chunky primary-blue playground slide. Just barely visible at the top of the slide is a pair of kid’s dirty white sneakers and cuffed jeans, smudged with motion. The second panel is the same drift of leaves, same slide— except Mikey’s towhead is just about shoved down into the leaves because Gerard landed on top of him. He's grinning for the camera; his arms are wrapped around Mikey's waist as if they're wrestling. His brother's face isn't visible, between his almost-blonde bowlcut shaken down over it and the leaves he’s getting pushed down into. Can't tell if he's still smiling or not.

Gerard has no memory of the day those pictures were taken. It’s just a cute little photo-comic to anyone else, forgettable, but he thinks about it a lot; times he can’t sleep, mostly. Times like now.

The room is whisper-quiet. 

If he could, he'd get up and open the window. He hasn't managed to fall asleep yet and his skin feels baked-on, loose, like if he rubs against the sheets at the wrong angle it'll start slipping off, and somehow he thinks an open window would help, which is stupid— the heat’s coming from him, cooling down the room won’t do jack shit. 

But he can't move, not without waking Mikey, so, he just sits and stews and looks at the wall, then his toes poking up the blanket in little picturebook mountains, then the wall again. If he tries to close his eyes— cringing at the drypaper feel of his lids— he'll get stuck somewhere between awareness and sleep, a repeat stock-footage blip of a breeze fluttering the curtains of an open window stuck in his head. How's that Green Day song go? Fucking— there's a line about his eyes bleeding or something, and then dull senses, maybe, but all he can remember is _the clock is laughing in my face_ — and another song, _bite my lip and close my eyes,_ he doesn't need that right now, does he? Bitten lips? Closed eyes? 

Gerard rolls over delicately, trying to make as little noise as possible. Mikey makes this muzzy sleep sound, but it’s toneless enough to tell him he's still in deep. The kid sleeps like the grave— he probably could climb out of bed and crack open the window without waking him, actually, now that he thinks about it (evidence: the time Mikey slept through an entire English lecture and into the lunch hour, and they just fucking left him there for the janitor to find) but he— he doesn't know. He really wants some fresh air. He really doesn't want to leave the bed. He really, really, really motherfucking wants to fall asleep. 

"Mikes," he says, quietly, not knowing why even as he does it. Mikey doesn't move. He just breathes steady, slow. Gerard's heart does a wobbly knock-kneed skateboard trick when he sees that his hair's long enough— plastered down to his face like it is— to brush past his nose and tremble like a stalk of grass in the wind every time he exhales. The dimesize bruises-from-nothing that always seem to appear on his arms are grey smudges in the dark, but if Gerard flicked on the light they'd stand out in stoplight colors, neon green, yellow. _Go slow_.

"Mikes?" he says, a little louder. Nothing. He ghost his fingertips over Mikey's cheekbone— soft skin, the slight bubbly texture of acne, kid hasn’t been showering enough lately— and watches for a reaction, a twitch, anything. 

Nothing. 

The room is still whisper-quiet; Gerard feels like he makes a hell of a lot more noise than a whisper sliding down further between the sheets. Fabric-on-fabric rasp, the bedsprings sighing beneath his weight, his joints clicking (which is so fucking unfair, people twice his age don't make this much noise). For some reason his hands have started to go numb, like he left a hairband around his wrist for too long and cut off the circulation. 

Mikey's on his side. Gerard is careful, careful, careful, moving his arms with a light two-finger grip until they rest against the shallow curve of his waist, out of the way, and fits himself against his back. Mikey's this warm thing against him, the line of his spine like a string of Mardi Gras beads pulled beneath his skin, bumping against Gerard's stomach, his breathing so low and subliminal he's almost thrumming with it. 

It's the first second of peace Gerard has known all night (and it's real bad to think "hours" instead of night, put it in context of how fucking long he's been lying awake with his skin about to slough off in strips, sunburnt way down deep in the layers). He doesn't know why he thought he was feverish; his body heat matches pace with his perfectly— or maybe Mikey’s matches with his. Human ice bath, his open window. God. He fucking loves him. 

Mikey shifts in his arms. He flinches back a little, still stupidly trying not to wake him (because _one_ of them has to be able to say they successfully slept through the night for the first time this week), and oh— oh, there, right there, his bony tailbone is against Gerard's junk. 

It feels like muscle memory when he tightens his arms around Mikey's waist; feels like nothing to bury his face in his shoulder, the trailing grass-ends of his hair, and breathe deep like he's trying to stuff his lungs full of him. Skin against his nose; his hips cradled against his, kept safe, and Christ, he's going to hell, but— he just— a little. He needs a little, a mouthful, a travel-sized dose of his brother. And then he can sleep— nip at his heels all the way to dreamland. 

His hand goes flat on the dip of Mikey's stomach (his bellybutton a little well under his shirt, against his palm, an airbubble, a gap) and he pulls him back, slow, careful, not looking as he does it, keeping himself blind and mute in the curve of his shoulder. Mikey doesn't even twitch when he starts to roll his hips. Gerard isn't hard— he will be, no doubt about that— but Mikey's got to feel it. Feel him. Right? 

Maybe not— maybe he's dead to the world and Gerard gets to have this. A private affair. 

Whatever momentary peace he'd swallowed when he wrapped himself around his brother is gone, replaced with something like nerves, maybe, but worse, because nerves aren't supposed to feel— good. It feels good. Guilty, and sweaty (Mikey's skin is tacky under his mouth, he doesn't know if it's wet from his spit or just skin-on-skin contact sweat). Weirdly childish; comfort-seeking. Gerard's taking a lick of his ice cream cone when he isn't looking (and wow, that's gotta be the world's most ill-timed metaphor, talk about thinking with his dick). 

He pushes against him a little harder, makes a strange, bubbly noise through his nose at the feeling of his boxer shorts catching and chafing on the head of his dick, always so electrically sensitive (and that just makes him think of the way Mikey uses that against him, their shared sensitive spots, how he knows Gerard will choke if he drags the dry pad of his thumb right _there_ when he’s jerking him off). 

"Fuck," he breathes, so much for mute, "fuck." 

If he didn't have to stay as quiet as possible he'd be muttering his name into his ear the way he likes him to, _mikeymikeymikey_ , but he won’t risk it— and isn’t it kind of fucked up to try and keep him asleep? Yeah? Isn't that the cherry on the heap of fucked-up Gerard lives under?

There's a lot he wants to do but can't, actually, it's driving crazy to think about everything he'd like to do to him right now. Slip his hands under the waistband of his shorts and see how worked-open he could get him, for one, using just spit and his fingers— see if Mikey could take him like that. God, he's done it before, he could, he shifted his knees apart wider and said _you gonna stall all night_ but his voice was tense and shot-through with nerves; Gerard's head is full of the way Mikey stuffed his little pained noises back down his throat when he pushed in, like he was shoving clothes into a suitcase after it broke open on the airport tarmac. He wants _that_. 

He gets sloppy and grinds against him too hard and that does it; Mikey twitches, suddenly, and the first word out of his mouth is "Gerard?" 

Gerard's hands fly off him like someone set a charge underneath them. Mikey moves stunned-animal slow for a second, not going anywhere, rubbing at his eyes and blinking as if he tries hard enough the clock on the bedside table will transform into something he can read without his glasses.

"Is it time to get up?" he mutters, crackly and way in the back of his throat. 

"Uh," Gerard says, "no, don't think so," and backs himself up away from him, only stopping when he's about to tip off the bed. 

Mikey turns around and squints at him. "The fuck am I awake for, then."

He makes an I-don't-know kind of noise and fumbles for the edge of the blanket without looking at it so he can have something to cover his rock hard fucking dick with. Mikey notices, of course, and looks down; with his tired halfshut eyes, the grin that spreads across his face looks downright evil. 

"Oh," he says, makes the word pop in his mouth like gum, "I get it."

"It's not. I'm not— go back to sleep," Gerard says. 

"Come on," he says, "here I thought I was having a wet dream or something, you creep." He moves closer. Gerard moves away as best he can. 

"Leave it."

"Don't pussy out on me now." Gerard's run out of bed, backed up against the headboard, and Mikey is propped up on his hands and knees, just looking at him with that smile on his face. "What were you up to, huh?"

"Dude, seriously, go back to sleep, I'll— I'll deal with it," he says, feeling miserable and hot and skeevy. Mikey snorts, ugly little sound. 

"C'mere, Gee," he says, almost baby-talking him. Gerard moves to get off the bed— maybe finally open that godforsaken window— but Mikey catches the collar of his shirt with his fingertips. 

"Quit being weird."

"I'm not being weird."

Mikey shuffles closer. His mouth finds the soft edge of Gerard's jaw. "You are," he says, right into his skin, and Gerard melts, and he knows Mikey feels him melt, knows he's laughing at him a little. "You're being so weird about this."

Mikey's fingers are still caught in his collar; he can feel the blunt edges of his nails against his sternum. His other hand is busy squirming down his pants. 

"Mikes, y'dont gotta," he says, but his arms are finding their way around him again. The picture— pictures— hover at the dredges of his mind. Fall colors, Mikey's face shoved down in the leaves. 

" 'Course I gotta," and his hand is wrapped around Gerard's cock, stroking soft, slow, "you'd do the same for me."

He was already worked up so close to the edge it barely takes seconds of Mikey's touch for his thighs to start shaking. Mikey’s mouthing at his neck all sweet, but Gerard want to kiss him worse than anything so he whispers _c'mere c'mere c'mere_ into his temple; he looks up and he gets a flash of that crooked canine of his caught on his lower lip before he presses their mouths together and then all he knows is spit, and the slide of Mikey's tongue, and the sugarwater boiling-over in his chest. Gerard's never made out with anyone with much skill and as far as he knows Mikey's never kissed anyone except him, full stop— they taught each other, they learned their own way, and it's a little awkward but it's common affection distilled down, just pulling at each other's mouths, slipping their tongues together. 

" _God,_ " he gasps, as soon as Mikey stops kissing him long enough to be able to, "Please, Mikes, don't stop."

"Wasn't planning on it," he says. 

Gerard doesn't get a second to respond; Mikey picks up the pace and his head snaps back against the headboard— Mikey takes the chance to bundle himself close and suck a hickey into his neck— and just like that, his thighs are shaking twice as bad, he's coming into his brother's cupped palm. 

"Fuck," he groans. 

"Yeah," Mikey agrees, and takes his palmful of jizz and smears it all down the front of Gerard's shirt. "That's for humping me in my sleep, asshole."


End file.
